<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Gem in her pocket by DenmarkStreetGutterClub</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118119">Gem in her pocket</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub'>DenmarkStreetGutterClub</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Feelings, Idiots in Love, Mild Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:27:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,444</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gem in her pocket</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I close the door, and the click of the latch is like a starting pistol. The vague thoughts of you that swim in and around my mind all day become high definition now, your arms, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. <em> All that hair.</em> You fascinate me in ways I don’t have the words for. Your otherness to me, how very different you are to Matthew. He was all about making a good impression; you don’t care.</p><p>That confidence that you walk through the world with, even though you walk on one less leg than most other people - it’s compelling to me. Yet I hardly know what to call this compulsion. I remember pacing on that beach, wondering if I was in love with you and talking myself out of it. I think I didn’t really know what love was. I think I thought it was tidy, clean and secure, and what I feel for you isn’t tidy, and it certainly isn’t clean.</p><p>I’m blushing now, even though I’m alone and no one else knows what I do when I’m alone and thinking of you. In my mind’s eye, as I slip off my top, your hands are slipping round my waist. Those huge hands, dark hair on the back of them, swarthy skin holding onto my pale softness. I imagine what you would feel like behind me. No smoothness on you, your chest and belly hair against my back.</p><p>I slip my hands into my jeans, into the white lace underneath the denim. I imagine it’s your hand, though I know you must feel so different to my own slender fingers. Still, with my eyes closed, I let the image of you I’ve created lead me, and I touch myself in the way I know works best.</p><p>I feel a surge of shame when I consider that you have no idea what works best for me here, and that you haven’t the faintest clue how much I desire you. I think I only just know myself. I doubt you desire me. These thoughts make me falter, I lose concentration.</p><p>I come close to deciding to stop, my cheeks burning, but then images of you rise in my mind, your strong arms pulling yourself into the front seat of the Land Rover, or you, sitting at your desk and yawning loudly, stretching your arms up and behind you and your shirt riding up to reveal your gently expanding tummy and all that hair.</p><p>My fingers are working again now, and you loom large in my mind. Large, hairy, that musky smell of you, the bitter tang of cigarettes lingering and the warm punch of lavender, and I think how much I want to taste your mouth. I sigh, and turn, sitting on my bed and laying back, shuffling my jeans down and then stroking my hand back between my legs.</p><p>The feeling of being naked and exposed, in the middle of the day, the daylight on the other side of my closed curtains, and you somewhere with no idea that I am thinking of you while I touch myself, is so transgressive and forbidden. I can hear myself panting as my hand works in a pleasing rhythm, and I run the other up my torso, and then trail my thumb in a circle over my nipple.</p><p>As the warm glow increases in my thighs and in my belly and radiates around my waist, I wish I could know how you feel about me. What I’m doing here feels exciting and far away from my neat, professional, prosaic exterior. I pretend I am the kind of wanton, sexy woman you desire. I feel like that now, running my left hand from my breast into my hair, loose around my shoulders, while my other hand continues to dip and swirl and rub and oh, god, I wish it was your hand.</p><p>I want to be the woman you want. I want to be the one who takes up all your thoughts the way I fear Charlotte does. I want you to be obsessed with me, I want you to think about holding me, kissing me, running away with me. I want to come to your mind in the quiet of night when you are alone, the way you come to mine, and I want to consume your thoughts and make you want me.</p><p>These thoughts are coming thick and fast now, my hand is moving quicker and I can feel the combination of my touch and my longing to be desired by you, and the thoughts of you and all that hair, entwining together in one bundle of charged passion. My breath is ragged, and a sudden flash of imagining you, above me, an image so visceral and real, sets off the chain reaction that will finish this and I can feel it balling up inside me, ready to burst. Through my closed eyes, I see your motion above me, rocking into me, wanting me, losing control the way I am now losing it, and I want you so much I could cry with it, and then it hits, flooding my body with the electricity of muscular tension and release and I gasp loudly and say your name.</p><p>It echoes in the silence as I still, trying to enjoy the afterglow, but the shame is beginning to burn through me now. Before I can catch my breath, I hear the sound of buzzing and the gallop of my phone’s ringtone and I am pulled out of my indulgence. I scoot up, and reach for my jeans and fish for the mobile. It’s you. Like I’ve summoned you up by calling your name as I brought myself off thinking of you. I press the green accept button.</p><p>“Cormoran, hi,” I say, and I can hear the breathlessness in my voice.</p><p>“Robin,” you say, and the sound of your voice connects with the warm glow I still feel throbbing between my legs, despite my shame. “You all right? Haven’t interrupted anything?”</p><p>“No!” I try to steady my breath. “Just doing some exercise,” I lie. Sort of. My heart rate is raised, it’s a kind of exercise.</p><p>“Sorry,” you say.</p><p>“It’s not a problem,” I say, still out of breath. “What did you want?” There’s a loaded question, though you have no way of knowing how loaded, of course. I manage a secret smile that pushes the guilt away for a moment.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry, I know I wanted to give you the day to yourself, but I need you,” you say, and I think my heartrate, impossibly, manages to speed up again.</p><p>“You do?” I ask, and I can hear a note in the question that is far more sultry than is appropriate. There’s a pause on the line. I imagine you registering that note and your body responding to the unspoken invitation in it, but of course, you are likely just fiddling with something on your desk.</p><p>“Yeah,” you say, and there is an unmistakable crack in your voice. You cough. “Barclay’s had to cry off this afternoon, and we’ve got a meeting with The Iron Man. You couldn’t come in for a couple of hours?”</p><p>“Sure,” I say quickly, because days away from the job are never as appealing as the job itself, and also because I know I will better be able to chase away my guilt over this if I can store a few more moments with you away in my mind, for the next time I feel so recklessly erotic. “I’ll come straight away,” I say, and then have to suppress a giggle at my unintended innuendo that will make no sense to you.</p><p>“Great. See you soon,” you say, and I end the call and drop the phone. I rub my hands over my face and pull myself to sit on the edge of the bed, redressing. I feel an odd kind of bubbling excitement in my chest that I’m going to see you shortly, and I notice the embarrassment has subsided. You have no way of knowing that I’ve done this, and the secret becomes something beguiling to me, like a gem I carry around in my pocket. </p><p>The way I feel about you is too big for me to name, too scary, but there are moments like this when I am basking in the glow of endorphins and full of a weird kind of hope and I don’t even know what I’m hoping for. But it’s enough to make me smile as I leave my room and the heated moments I’ve just spent, and make my way to you.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>